Writer, reader, watcher.
This was evidently focus-grouped by the Elizabeth Warren/Hillary Clinton fan club, the one in which we childishly simplify our misapprehensions about basic political issues. Peele and co. still don't quite know what gentrification even is, let alone why it's bad, and it's hilarious that they decided to base an entire script on their bunk understanding of it.
Moreover, Nia DaCosta's dilettante direction is as lifeless as her antagonist--she manages to make Chicago look like Dillard's on a space station and…
Okay, a confession: this film has not left me since I left the theater. I’m just happy that movies like this are still getting made. I’m elated that the artform exists at all. Joyously, a person had the will and the resources to build an intricate 1960s set, to strap a camera to an old car, and to write a unique script boiling with charisma. I’m ebullient; I get to bear witness to passionate filmmaking. I get to watch. I loafe.
Nothing says Christmas Eve in our house like an ice pick in the neck and Jimmy Conway busting up a telephone booth. With constant commercial breaks, a syndicated Goodfellas has a four-point-five-hour runtime. Not once did I see someone in my family reach for their smartphone—not even the boomers.